


(chemically) so heavenly

by bewarethesmirk



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clubbing, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 14:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15664785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewarethesmirk/pseuds/bewarethesmirk
Summary: The more Laura pushes for Derek to go out with her, the more he resists.





	(chemically) so heavenly

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to [firesign10](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10) for reading something not in her fandom and making my initial brain dump into something readable. Thanks immeasurably to [dr_girlfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dr_girlfriend) for your amazing amount of help. You're one of my favorites, and it's a privilege to learn from you. Thanks also to [Sterek Feels](https://twitter.com/sterekfeels) for reading this over and giving me your amazing advice. Your friendship is a gift! Last but hardly least, thanks to my wonderful partner in not enough crime, [Dorian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorian/pseuds/Dorian), for slashing (pun sadly not intended) this to pieces at the end. I'm sorry this was too fluffy for you and that I didn't name this after a Walt Whitman poem, but your comments were still very much appreciated and helpful! 
> 
> Title stolen from Peace's _Lost On Me_ , which is an incredible song, and I played a lot while writing this.

The more Laura pushes for Derek to go out with her, the more he resists.

“C’mon,” she says, pulling on his wrist in an attempt to move him from where he’s planted on the couch _trying_ to watch the Discovery Channel. “Your balls are going to shrivel up if you don’t use them occasionally.”

Derek’s nose wrinkles, his eyebrows almost becoming one as he frowns. “Why the hell are you concerned about my balls?” Laura has always been too interested in his sex life. It’d be creepy if he knew it wasn’t just familial concern. 

No, it’s still creepy.

“Look,” Laura says, her voice becoming more serious. Derek turns to meet her eyes. “I just want to dance and have some drinks. It’s been a long week.”

Derek sighs. When Laura puts it like that, it’s hard to resist. She’s been working as a paralegal since they moved to New York, and now she's started thinking about applying to law school. Her weeks are long and she often doesn’t get weekends off, so this is a rare opportunity for her to unwind. Derek _has_ been sitting at home a lot and, truthfully, his balls have probably already lost all function from disuse.

“I’d like you to come with me. It'll be fun,” Laura says hopefully, looking at Derek with sparkling eyes.

Derek has never been able to resist that look. As kids, when Laura had begged him to help her rip the heads off her Barbie dolls and put them on Cora’s pillow, he hadn’t been able to resist her then either. 

“Fuck,” Derek says and puts his face in his hands.

*

An hour later finds Derek and Laura walking through the door of a douchebag club in the Meatpacking District — the kind where there’s a line of hopefuls waiting to be allowed in. Derek and Laura only manage to get in because Laura had texted a friend who works there to get their names on the list.

Derek’s teeth are already clenched by the time they ride the elevator to an upper floor. He can feel the bass reverberating through the walls as the elevator makes its ascent. Nightlife is an affront to Derek’s personality, but it’s a real assault on his heightened werewolf senses. Damn Laura ten thousand times over for dragging him into this.

He curses her silently until she steps out of the elevator ahead of him, all leather pants and red crop top, and shoots a grin over her shoulder at him. It's obvious how this is exactly what she needs; it's a glimpse of the vivacious sister Derek lost almost ten years ago, due to his own stupidity. Even his own stale guilt dissipates in the face of Laura’s wide-toothed smile. Derek abandons all resentment for being here. Laura belongs here, and if she really wants Derek here with her — well, it won’t kill him. 

Hopefully.

Derek follows Laura to the bar, where she orders them each a drink that won’t do a damn thing to intoxicate them — at least, until they duck into a dark corner. Laura unloads a healthy slug of what he assumes is wolfsbane-laced liquor into each of their drinks from a flask hidden in her boot.

Derek opens his mouth to question if this is wise, but all it takes is Laura’s raised eyebrow and Derek succumbs, clinking glasses with his sister as some frenetic beat takes over the dance floor. It takes all of his willpower to withstand the cacophony of sweat, noise and subsonic vibrations from the bass. There’s a whirlwind of feelings and emotions — arousal, excitement, sadness, the vague stench of illness from too much alcohol — it’s overwhelming. Derek had thought he’d gotten used to this sensory and emotional tumult. Living in Manhattan is a training ground for tolerating all the chaotic output from people, but here it's concentrated.

Laura drags him out into the middle of the dance floor. Derek focuses on swaying while she dances. It’s not the first time he's pretended he’s with Laura so other people leave him alone, and he knows Laura is doing the same. She holds onto his bicep as she dances, touches his neck, scenting him. They attract attention wherever they go, and Derek feels safer warding off the inevitable suitors. Laura and he are apparently on the same wavelength at the moment, although he doesn’t give it long until she’s worried about the state of his sex life again. 

Finally, Derek starts to feel more comfortable, concentrating only on the music and keeping his hand on Laura’s elbow like a lifeline. When his eyes drift open and his shoulders relax, he can’t help but share a private smile with Laura. She’s singing along to some awful pop song Derek doesn’t know. Her happiness is almost infectious and the feeling of pack settles into Derek’s bones.

He keeps his eyes open and looks around, now that the drink is working its way through his bloodstream, calming him down and setting him more at ease. He really doesn’t care who is around them, but he happens to lock eyes on a guy. 

It’s hard to miss him. The guy is flailing around on the dance floor with an uncoordinated energy that still somehow makes its own sort of sense. He’s dancing by himself like he has his own spotlight. At first Derek assumes he must be on drugs, but the guy smells clean (almond, sweat, faint arousal, ink), and Derek is somewhat alarmed by how easily how he can pick out his unique scent in the crowded mass. 

Derek finds that he can’t stop staring. There’s nothing ostensibly interesting about this man, but Derek _can’t drag his eyes away_.

Some sort of fog has formed over Derek, obscuring his senses and mind alike, and he doesn’t even realize it until Laura is snapping her fingers in front of his face. 

Derek shakes his head as he emerges from his daze and his neck jerks violently in Laura’s direction. She’s grinning from ear to ear, red-lipped and devilish. She leans in close even though it’s entirely unnecessary with werewolf hearing. “See something you like?”

“Shut up,” Derek grumbles. “I’m getting another beer.” Ripping his arm away from her predatory clutch, he heads toward the bar, but not without hearing, “Get him, tiger!” 

He _hates_ Laura. 

He’s able to quickly catch the eye of the pretty bartender by flashing her a smile. He gets an IPA and finds a place to lean against the back wall, where he can watch the dance floor and all the antics. He likes being able to see everyone, plot his escape routes. If his designated spot gives him a clear view of the guy he’d been watching earlier, it’s just a coincidence. 

Derek sees Laura dancing with an attractive redhead girl through the next few songs, and he’s not surprised when they start making out while grinding together. 

The guy has stopped dancing and is wiping sweat from his forehead. He lifts his shirt away from his body in a vain attempt to cool off. Derek’s mouth goes dry at the shiny sweat layering his back. He wants to go over in front of everyone and fall to his knees and lick around the guy’s waistband. 

Fuck. He swipes a hand over his face, realizing he’s gone into a daze again. What is wrong with him? Maybe Laura is right, maybe he should find someone. Maybe—

“Hi?”

Derek focuses on the person in front of him. Who happens to be the guy he’d been staring at. Derek hadn’t even noticed him come over.

His sweaty dark hair is sticking up in every direction, and there are sweat patches under the pits of his white t-shirt. He's biting his lip and radiating arousal and nervousness. He looks alarmingly young.

“Hi,” Derek returns, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, making it hard to form words.

“My buddy Scott just told me you’ve been looking at me —” He waves his hand vaguely toward the dance floor where Scott must be. “And I wanted to say hello.”

Derek’s caught in the stare of this man—in the disco strobe lights, his eyes are some unfathomable shade of butterscotch. Derek must have been quiet too long, though, because the guy starts to back away. 

“Oh, I mean, unless you —” The guy’s shoulders slump. “I mean, of course, look at you.” He waves his hands at Derek with a frown growing in his face and red suffusing his cheeks and _no_ —

“Wait,” Derek say, grasping the guy’s forearm. The man’s tongue runs over his lower lip, and fuck, Derek has never felt a bolt of arousal so strong, like he’s captive to his body, to the desire to press this stranger into a wall and —

“Yeah?”

Fuck, Derek has lost control of his mind. He needs to find some kind of manners. He holds his hand out and says, “I’m Derek.” 

The guy’s mouth turns into an amused half-smile, half-smirk, and Derek finds his hand engulfed in a a broad long-fingered hand with a strong grip. “Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Derek repeats, and the guy’s smile only grows.

“Can I get you a drink?” Derek asks, and Stiles’s posture loses some of its tension. 

“You read my mind, big guy.” He slaps his hand on Derek’s bicep and the touch scorches Derek's skin. 

Stiles leads him to the bar and yells to the pretty bartender once her attention is caught. “Erica! Two beers, please.”

The bartender shoots him a shark-toothed grin that reminds Derek of Laura and gives them two beers. Derek pays, and Stiles ushers him upstairs to the lounge area, where there are comfortable looking chaises and it’s quieter.

They settle on a couch in the corner, sitting comfortably next to each other.

Stiles turns to Derek. “I have a confession,” he says, already peeling at the label on his beer bottle. 

“You have a boyfriend,” Derek says with a sense of dread.

Stiles stares at him and then throws back his head and laughs. “No, dude.” He takes a sip of his beer. “The opposite! I haven’t dated anyone in —” He makes a face and shakes his head. “Well, let’s not go there.”

Derek cracks a smile. “Me, too.”

Stiles jaw drops, just staring. “How —“ He shakes his head. “You know, nevermind.” 

Derek leans forward so his knee is touching Stiles’, and it must not go unnoticed because Stiles is staring down at the point where they’re touching. Derek tilts his head, meeting Stiles’ gaze. “Was that the confession?” Derek takes a sip of his beer. “That you haven’t dated in so long you can’t remember?” 

In an abrupt movement, Stiles’s head jerks to the side, but then just as abruptly, he stops and moves into stretching his long neck from side to side, like he’s working out some kinks, tendons standing out sharply like he hasn’t been eating enough. Derek’s not entirely sure what he just witnessed.

Stiles’ mouth twitches and he runs his fingers through his hair so that it’s sticking out in every direction even worse than before.“Um,” Stiles says, waving his hand around in a manner Derek is already growing familiar with. “Are you hungry?”

“What.” This conversation has veered in a weird direction. 

Stiles’ mouth drops again. “I didn’t mean that as a euphemism.” Stiles studies him. “Or maybe I did.” His sly smile is doing strange things to Derek’s stomach that he thought only teenagers felt. 

To cover it up, he smiles his dangerous smile, the one Laura has called a weapon of mass destruction. “Come again?” He raises his eyebrow delicately.

It’s charming the way Stiles goes red. 

“You have hidden layers!” Stiles says, poking Derek in the shoulder. And then he pokes him again. “Jesus,” he says, low, eyes dark when his gaze meets Derek’s again. 

Since Derek’s insanity has forced him down this path, he keeps marching on, trying to focus on anything but Stiles’ finger pressing into his skin and his gaze taking him apart in its intensity. “Are you actually hungry?” Derek asks, looking at Stiles’ skinny frame and forcing himself not to think about Stiles’ finger still poking into the meat of his shoulder.

Stiles licks his lips. “Yeah, man. What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a diner near here with excellent burgers.”

Stiles groans and brings both of his hands together in front of his chest in what looks like a prayer. He even angles his head up to the ceiling. “Thank you, God,” he says ardently and stands while finishing his beer. Derek tries not to watch the bob of his throat and fails miserably. 

“I need to say goodbye to my sister,” Derek says as he heads towards the stairs. Stiles follows him closely.

“I’m gonna text the friend I was here with,” Stiles says, texting remarkably well while descending the stairs when Derek looks over his shoulder.

Once downstairs, they’re back on the outskirts of the dance floor, which has gotten insane in the time Stiles and he have been upstairs. Derek uses his senses to find Laura; she’s no longer on the dance floor, but hanging out against the wall with the redhead she'd been dancing with earlier.

As tempting as it would be to interrupt her in a fit of retribution for dragging him here, Derek grabs Stiles’ wrist and leads him out to the lobby instead. They wait with a crowd of scantily-clad people until the elevator comes, and then Stiles is squished next to Derek in the elevator car. He has to take deep breaths to keep from pressing his nose and mouth and fangs to Stiles' neck. 

To distract himself, Derek reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, sending Laura a text: _Going out for burgers, loser._

“You didn’t find your sister,” Stiles says softly in the elevator. 

“Oh, I did,” Derek says,and shows Stiles his phone. Stiles reads the text, then throws his head back and laughs. Everyone around them in the elevator stares, but Derek hardly cares.

Right at that moment, because of course it’s when Stiles is looking at his screen, Laura texts back: _Does this mean your balls are no longer blue?_

Stiles, the fucking asshole, doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t see the text. He bursts into a new wave of laughter while they’re still in the elevator, causing everyone else to stare at them. Derek feels his face burn as he shoves Stiles into the lobby as soon as the door opens, although he can’t help but stare at his ass.

They’re outside in the cold, and Derek gulps in the frigid air into this lungs. 

“It’s just two blocks over,” Derek says.

“Awesome, man. I’m dying for some fries.”

The walk to the diner is quiet and comfortable. Their breaths etch patterns in the cold night air. The beep of horns and the sounds of yells settle around them.

They’re seated in the diner, across each other in a too-big booth. It’s one of Derek and Laura’s favorite haunts to meet for meals when she gets time to eat with her hectic job. At least this place is familiar, but as Derek looks across the table, he realizes there’s nothing familiar about the frightening warmth that has settled in Derek’s stomach, since he and Stiles started talking at the club. Despite the harsh fluorescent lighting in the diner, Stiles is even more beautiful than he thought. 

The slap of menus against the table alerts Derek that the waitress has come over. He turns his gaze from Stiles to her. She brusquely takes their drink orders and wanders away. 

“Misery sure doesn’t love company,” Stiles says under his breath, once the waitress is probably not far enough away. Derek snorts before he can help himself. Stiles’ eyes are bright as the corners of his mouth quirk up, pleased, like he’s just won some kind of prize.

“So,” he says.

“So,” Derek echoes with a raised brow. He settles back in his booth, trying to relax the muscles in his back.

Stiles leans forward on his elbows like the newly created space between them offends him. “So,” he says and winks in an exaggerated way that shouldn’t be so attractive, “you were at the club with your sister?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, voice dry, and he clears his throat. He hasn’t done this conversation thing with anyone but Laura in a long time. Derek’s job certainly doesn’t require him to communicate much, which normally he appreciated. “I don’t normally go out.” 

Derek winces. Great, now he sounds like a fucking hermit. He can even hear Laura’s voice in his head calling him a shut-in.

Luckily, Stiles’ smile doesn’t drop from his face. “I don’t go out much anymore,” he says. “Scotty dragged me out tonight because the girl he’s making heart eyes at mentioned she might be there.”

“That sounds like she was asking him out,” Derek says, brow furrowed.

Stiles laughs like Derek just said something hysterical. “Exactly,” he says, pointing at Derek. “Scott isn’t always the best at understanding these things.” 

Their waitress comes over and slams two glasses of water on the table before marching away. Well, it’s not like they had time to look at the menu anyway.

Stiles takes a sip of his water. “Anyway, I was going along as Scott’s wingman. When I left things were going well.”

“You live with Scott?” Derek asks, taking a sip of his own water.

“Unfortunately,” Stiles says, faking exaggerated horror. “No, Scott’s my buddy. He moved out here after I had been at NYU for two years.” His expression is fond. “We’ve been living together since he got here.”

“You knew Scott before you moved here?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles says, waving his arms around as if to encompass everything. “We’ve known each other since kindergarten when I stole his fruit cup.” Stiles barks out a laugh. “Turns out he didn’t want it anyway. Even though he’s a loser who doesn’t like fruit cups, we became inseparable.” Stiles bites his lip. “He’s the only one that’s able to tolerate me all the time.”

 _Maybe I could_ , Derek thinks out of nowhere, but pushes that thought away. 

“What are you studying?” Derek finds himself asking. Normally, he doesn’t care much about other people, but Stiles doesn’t fit in the mold of normal. 

“I finished in May,” Stiles says, with the deep relief of the recently graduated. “Anthropology and folklore.”

Derek feels his eyebrows raising. Unbidden, he thinks of his father reading large history tomes and his sister reading him fairytales as bedtime stories well past the age where bedtime stories were socially acceptable. Even now, Derek finds himself reading a lot in his downtime, and more often than not, it’s history or mythology. It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Stiles all of this.

“I feel like you’re judging me,” Stiles says, eyes narrowed.

“I’m not.”

Stiles’ eyes remain suspicious. Derek sighs and looks at his menu. “I majored in history.”

“ _Really_?”

The sheer surprise in Stiles’ voice has him looking up. Derek just raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” Stiles slowly and the smile is back on his face. _Where it belongs_. “That’s cool.” He looks toward his own menu, opening it for the first time. “Cool, cool.” In the next moment, Stiles jerks his head up and asks, “What kind of history? I mean--” He bites his lip. “Did you have a concentration?”

“The Mayan and Aztec empires,” Derek says.

“Dude,” Stiles says, eyes shining again. “ _Dude_.”

Derek can’t help his smile. 

A loud voice clears their throat. They both look up from where they’re staring at each other to look at the waitress. “What do you want?”

“Um,” Stiles looks down at his open menu and Derek looks down at his closed one. Luckily, he’s been here enough. “I’ll have the California omelette and a salad with balsamic vinaigrette instead of the fries.”

Stiles is back to looking at him suspiciously. “You’re a heathen.” 

Derek shrugs.

“What do you want,” the waitress asks Stiles, without the question mark and with a lot of frustration. Stiles grins at her and the waitress looks confused. 

“Fries,” he says. “Curly if you have them. And a chocolate shake.”

The waitress doesn’t say anything else, she just turns away and walks back toward the kitchen. Stiles looks after her for a moment and then shrugs. He turns back to Derek. “So, mister history buff, what do you do now?” 

“Translation.”

“Translation?” 

“I freelance,” Derek says. “For some publishers and law firms and ad hoc clients.”

Stiles stares at him with an expression he can’t work out, before glancing away. Derek can’t help but feel like he’s missed something.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Stiles says, low. “I mean--no! Translation.” He nods emphatically. “That’s awesome. Which language?”

Pleased to be asked, Derek answers, “Spanish, Portuguese and French.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “Christ. You’re killin’ me, Smalls.””

Derek has no idea what he means, but he finds himself not minding too much. Stiles is a little weird, but not in a way that grates . The warmth in Derek’s stomach is still there and growing steadily hotter. “What do you do?” he asks. “I mean, I can’t imagine there’s much money in telling fairy tales these days?”

Stiles laughs. “I’m a barista for the time being.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, what Derek’s recognizes as a nervous tic. “I’m not quite sure what the hell I’m doing yet, but I work at two coffee shops, and it pays the bills.” Stiles shrugs,.

Derek understands. Stiles is newly graduated and seems bright but doesn’t have everything figured out. It’s normal, but he’s obviously self-conscious about it. 

“Which coffee shops?” Derek asks. 

Stiles gets a funny expression on his face, and Derek hurries to explain further, “I like coffee. I go to coffee shops.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “Coffee connoisseur?”

Derek smiled wryly. “My sister would say I’m a coffee snob.” 

Stiles laughs. “Come by the Cafe Erotica on Rivington, and I’d be happy to hook you up.”

“Erotica?” Derek shifts in his seat. 

“Yeah, we have erotica readings twice a week,” Stiles says and for some reason he’s still blushing. 

“I’d go by for coffee,” Derek says. He can’t help but wonder if Stiles’ embarrassment means that he does some of the readings himself. He tries not to let his mind wander too far down that road — what Stiles’ lush pink mouth might look like as it forms the words, how his voice might grow soft and raspy as he gets aroused, a flush rising on his pale cheeks...

The clatter of plates on the table snaps him out of it as the waitress drops off their food. Derek takes a long gulp of cold water, and then they both dig in. 

The conversation continues to go smoothly, and Derek feels himself growing more and more at ease. It’s as he’s finishing the last of his omelette that he remembers. And he’s not about to let Stiles off the hook.

“What’s your confession?” 

Stiles stares down at his hands, turns red, and doesn’t answer immediately. The waitress comes to take their plates.

Finally Stiles seems to come to a decision, raising his gaze to Derek’s. “I wanted to sleep with you,” Stiles says, earnestly. “But,” he bites his lip.

“ _Wanted_ to?”

Stiles stares at him and then rolls his eyes extravagantly. “Still want to, dumbass. Of course. But.”

Derek waits, breathes.

“I’d like to go out this week. Like, and talk?” Stiles says, looking down and then up at Derek through his eyelashes. “Do I sound like the single largest dweeb ever?”

Derek can’t stop smiling. “I’d like that, too.”

Stiles smiles back, face radiant and eyes sharp. His hand creeps out to catch Derek’s and his fingers as gentle as his voice. “You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever seen, so of course I want to —” His eyes are dark and Derek feels a shiver go down his spine at the look Stiles is giving him. “But. Oh god, tell me I’m not misreading this.”

Derek smiles and runs his fingers over Stiles’ knuckles. “You’re not.”

Stiles smiles in return, and they don’t seem to need to say any more.

Derek insists on getting the check. 

Once Derek has paid and left a hefty tip for their waitress they’re outside in the cold air, but the warmth hasn’t left Derek yet. He’s made a lot of mistakes in his life, but this isn’t going to be one of them. “Can I have your number?”

Stiles grins at him brightly. Before Derek can even prepare himself, Stiles is lunging forward, enveloping him in a strong, warm hug. Despite Stiles’ lanky build, Derek can feel the lean muscle of Stiles’ back under his hands, and wonders how it would feel to touch his warm, bare skin. Derek breathes in Stiles, that now familiar scent of almond, ink, and residual sweat from the club. 

The hug lasts longer than Derek would have imagined, and he’s not the first to let go.

Stiles finally separates with a slight jerk. “Sorry —” he says and straightens out his shirt. It’s dark, but Derek can imagine Stiles’ cheeks are pink if the embarrassment he smells is anything to go by. “I just flung myself at you.”

Derek’s mouth twitches. “It’s fine.”

Stiles looks at him closely and just says, “Oh,” softly. The embarrassment fades away into warmth. It feels a lot like the warmth that’s been suffusing Derek for the evening. 

“Give me your phone,” Stiles says with a new confidence. Derek digs into his pocket, retrieves his phone and unlocks it for Stiles. He hands it over and a second later he hears the tell-tale ding of a text. Stiles holds up his phone, showing the text he had just sent from Derek’s.

Derek smiles and takes his phone back, stuffing it back into his jeans.

“So,” he says. 

“So,” Stiles says, clearing his throat and clenching his jaw like he’s preparing for something important. “Dinner next week? I’m free Tuesday night.”

“That should work,” Derek says, and if it doesn’t, he thinks to himself, he’ll _make_ it work. “Send me your schedule for Cafe Erotica,” he says, the name accompanied with a sardonic twist of his mouth, “and I’ll come by to grab coffee.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I mean — that would be great. Better than great.” It doesn’t escape Derek’s notice that Stiles is staring at his mouth, but for now, Derek wants to take this huge and terrifying thing slow. 

Instead, he squeezes Stiles’ arm, says goodnight and walks away. He only looks back once, catching Stiles looking back at him as well, and they both turn away sheepishly. That warmth lighting him settles into a soft, satisfied, glow. He turns the corner, letting the frigid air cool his warm cheeks, and heads for home. And when he’s sure no one can see (especially not Laura), he looks at his phone, going into the recent texts and adding a name next to the number, and smiles.


End file.
